


Sherlock Holmes and the Pavlovian Problem

by DoubleNegative



Series: The (Secret) Adventures of Sherlock Holmes [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Established Relationship, Gift Fic, Hallway sex, Humor, M/M, Sexual Content, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, abuse of psychology, inconvenient erections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 08:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6696994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleNegative/pseuds/DoubleNegative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Thing is, Sherlock, your o-face and your deduction face look—and sound!—exactly the same. If I pop one more awkward stiffy at a crime scene, Sally’s going to have me sectioned. Do you think you can, y’know, work on that?”</p><p>Spoiler: they don't really work on that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Holmes and the Pavlovian Problem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redscudery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/gifts).



“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, his mouth forming a perfect circle. “ _Oh_. Oh, that’s good. Yes, yes, _yes_.” He drew the last word out, twisting one hand in his hair as his eyes fluttered shut. “Brilliant.”

John shifted uncomfortably, and forced himself to look anywhere but Sherlock’s pink cheeks, his ruffled curls, the perfect curve of his lips. God, how he ached.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. “That was clever, Lestrade,” he said, in more normal tones. “You really ought to find me cases like this more often.”

“Yeah, you know I don’t actually set these up for you, right?” Lestrade said. “Anyway, who was it? The housekeeper?”

“The brother-in-law,” Sherlock said. “He has a flat in Bermondsey he didn’t tell you about; check the freezer there. You’ll find everything you need.” He spun on his heel and turned to John, who was still staring fixedly at the wall and trying to force his erection away through sheer concentration.

It wasn’t working.

“Coming, John?” Sherlock said.

 _Keep making those noises in public and I will be_ , John thought miserably. He turned away, on the pretense of inspecting a photo on the nightstand, and adjusted himself as discreetly as he was able.

As he followed Sherlock out of the flat, he caught sight of Sally’s raised eyebrows. She shook her head in disgust, mouthing the word “sicko” as he passed by.

“Hungry?” Sherlock asked they climbed into a cab. “I rather fancy Thai.”

“Can we stop at the flat first?” John asked. “Or just order in? I could really use a shower.”

“Why?” Sherlock said, his eyes flickering up and down John’s body. “You just took one a few—oh. Oh, John.”

“Yeah, see, that’s exactly it,” John said, trying to keep his voice down in deference to the cabbie. “All that gasping and sighing and ‘oh John’ this and ‘oh god that’s good’ that. Damned hard to maintain my composure with all that, even with the corpses.”

Sherlock blinked. “I’m… not sure I follow.”

John sighed, and resigned himself to spelling it out. “Thing is, Sherlock, your o-face and your deduction face look—and sound!—exactly the same. If I pop one more awkward stiffy at a crime scene, Sally’s going to have me sectioned. Do you think you can, y’know, work on that?”

“I really don’t see how,” Sherlock said. “My behavior hasn’t changed, and this was never a problem before.”

“Well,” John said. He was never going to get out of this with dignity intact, but damn, how he’d hoped he might. “It, uh. It was a bit. I mean, your deduction face. You must realize that’s always come across a bit, well, ecstatic for mixed company. So it was always distracting. And then when I _actually_ got to see what you look like when you come—” He shifted uncomfortably as his erection, which had faded in the face of humiliation, began to make its presence known again. “It’s exactly the same face, Sherlock. I can’t unknow that, okay?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, digesting this. “Perhaps,” he said, finally, and turned to stare out the window. They passed the rest of the ride to Baker Street in silence. Without Sherlock’s attention trained on him, John’s arousal and embarrassment both faded, so that by the time they finally reached their destination, he could exit the cab with minimal self-consciousness.

And then they were inside. Sherlock shut the front door behind them, and John had his foot on the first step before he realized Sherlock wasn’t following. He turned. “You coming?”

Sherlock stood in the shadows of the entranceway, his head cocked to the side. “It’s not _just_ my behavior at crime scenes, is it?” He took a step forward, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, and John’s heart thumped in his chest. “That’s not the only reason for your… reactions.” Another step. “No, it’s much more Pavlovian than that.”

John swallowed hard. “That so?” he said, fighting to keep his voice casual.

“It’s isn’t just that you’re picturing my ‘o-face’ when I’m making deductions. It’s that you know you’ll be seeing it again very, very soon.” He stalked towards John as he spoke, until mere inches separated them.

“Oh?” John said again, the capacity for multi-syllabic words having long since fled.

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock said, and crowded him back against the wall. “After the case. High on victory, adrenaline coursing through our veins… we can’t wait to get our hands on each other, can we?” He still wasn’t actually touching John, but he stood so close John could smell his aftershave, feel the heat rolling off him. “It’s a routine your body has come to rely on, isn’t it? It knows just what’s _coming_ next.”

John took a steadying breath. “You might be right,” he said, shifting to slip one leg between Sherlock’s thighs. He slid his hands up Sherlock’s chest to clutch his lapels, and then, taking advantage of Sherlock’s momentary distraction, spun them around so Sherlock was the one pressed against the wall. “In fact, I’m sure you’re right. But I’m not the only one who likes our post-case routine.” He rolled his hips slowly, letting Sherlock feel how hard he was, enjoying the hot press of Sherlock’s growing erection against his stomach.

Sherlock bit his lip. “No,” he admitted. “You’re not.”

John grinned up at him. “Well, then,” he said. “Let’s take this somewhere more comfortable, shall we?” He tugged on Sherlock’s coat with the hand still gripping his lapel, urging him toward the stairs, but Sherlock resisted.

“No need,” he said, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Mrs. Hudson’s out for the weekend. There’s no one to interrupt us.”

“Like that would stop you,” John grumbled, but his heart thudded in his chest. “No bloody concern for propriety at all.”

“Says the man who gets raging erections at crime scenes.”

“I think we already established that’s not entirely my fault,” John said, sliding his hands under Sherlock’s coat to curve around his hips.

“We established nothing of the sort,” Sherlock said, doing his best to sound prim even as John mouthed along his throat. He tipped his head back, silently begging for more. “It’s—it’s classical conditioning, that’s— _ah_ , that’s all.”

“Mmm,” John said, into the crook of his neck. “And this’ll fix that, will it?”

Sherlock chuckled, low and dark. “No. But it is more fun, isn’t it?” He slipped one hand between them, skimming down over John’s flies, cupping his hand over the bulge he found there and squeezing.  
  
John shivered as Sherlock slid to his knees. “Much more fun.”

Sherlock took his time, rubbing his cheek along the line of John’s prick, running his hands up John’s thighs and over his arse, while John pressed his hands to the wall and tried not to beg. “Shall I?” Sherlock asked, after what felt like an eternity of teasing.

John let out his breath in a gust. “God, _please_. Do you have any idea how long I’ve fantasized about this?”

“Two years, five months, eight days, and thirteen hours,” he said, not even pausing as he worked at John’s button and zipper. “Give or take a few minutes, I suppose.”

John squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus for a moment. “That’s… is that how long it’s been since we met?”

“Well, since we got back from Angelo’s that first time,” Sherlock said, and pushed John’s trousers and pants down to his knees. “You masturbated to the idea that very night, if I’m not mistaken.” He leaned forward and wrapped one hand around the base of John’s cock. “I was intrigued by the thought myself, if I’m being honest.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” John said, and dropped his head back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. Sherlock wasn’t mistaken—of course he wasn’t—but Sherlock’s revelation of his own immediate interest was a new detail. Also, Sherlock’s mouth was around the head of his cock, and John had learned very early on that he could either watch Sherlock during a blow job or he could last more than thirty seconds, but not both.

Frankly, John wasn’t sure he was going to last even with his eyes closed. Sherlock licked and sucked and moaned around his cock like he couldn’t imagine anything more satisfying. Over the din of his own harsh panting and Sherlock’s soft noises of pleasure, John heard Sherlock unzip his own trousers. The sound of relief Sherlock made as he palmed his own cock vibrated through John’s very bones, and he had to bite his lip to keep from coming on the spot.

Sherlock pulled back just for a moment, releasing John’s cock with a wet _pop_. “Touch me,” he said, voice rough, before diving back in. John obliged with a shaky gasp, threading one hand in Sherlock’s curls and tugging light, and letting the other trail over his face, over his spit-slick lips stretched obscenely around John’s aching prick.

“Yeah, that’s it,” John said. “Yeah, _fuck_ , just like that. I love the way you—I love—”

Sherlock made a desperate noise low in his throat and John snapped his eyes open to watch. Sherlock’s hand speed up and then his hips kicked forward as he came, moaning long and low.

That was it: John barely had time to give Sherlock’s hair a warning tug before he came hard, struggling to keep from thrusting into Sherlock’s slack mouth.

Sherlock sank back onto his heels, breathing hard, while John slid down the wall to sit on the floor, pants and trousers still bunched around his calves. “Well,” Sherlock said, crawling to sit beside John.

“Yeah.” John chuckled softly and shook his head. “That was—yeah.”

“Really,” Sherlock said a moment later, after he’d caught his breath. “Really, you just ought to get a longer coat. Hides all manner of sins.” He shifted a bit, tucking himself back into his trousers and buckling his belt. “It’s why I’m so fond of this one, you know.”

John snorted. “Yeah, you’re fond of that one because it’s as dramatic as you can get this side of a cape.”

“The point is,” Sherlock continued. “I can get away with all sorts of things underneath this coat.” He paused, and looked at John sideways. “ _We_ could get away with all sorts of things underneath this coat.”

“A good coat and a short friend,” John muttered, remembering. “You git. The point was to get over this reaction, not to start getting inappropriate feelings about something else. Bloody Pavlov.”

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic a looooong time ago, and then got distracted. But I wanted to finish it up as a thank-you gift for redscudery, beta extraordinaire, as a small token of my gratitude for all her work on my most recent long fic. I hope you enjoy it, Red!
> 
> check me out on tumblr at [one thousand hurrahs](http://www.onethousandhurrahs.tumblr.com/)


End file.
